Of What Once Was
by Rosellyia
Summary: Once upon a time, he knew too much of the future and too little of the past. Now? It's the complete opposite. In conclusion, Harry Potter still doesn't know much of anything at all. {AU. slash. Tom Riddle Jr./Harry Potter.}
1. I

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything I don't own. Simple as that._

**Title:** Of What Once Was.

**Rating: **M.

**Pairings: **Slash. Tom Riddle Jr. / Harry Potter.

**Warnings**: This is a slash-fiction. Includes pre-slash. Relationships with minors. Time Travel. Swearing. Violence. Sexual Content. etc.

...

**This fic was adopted. Then adapted. **

_.commence thy reading._

* * *

**Of What Once Was**

—

_Once upon a time, he knew too much of the future and too little of the past. Now? It's the complete opposite._

_In conclusion, Harry Potter still did not know anything at all._

—

**Chapter I**

—

Harry Potter was used to stares. Especially ones directed at him.

He didn't exactly _like_ them, but they just simply were always there.

Awestruck glances, hateful glares, lustful ogles, incredulous looks of pure shock; you name it and Harry has most likely been subjected to it.

Oftentimes, they just couldn't be avoided. The looks and the stares.

After all, Harry Potter is _Harry Potter._

Pretty, dark-haired, green-eyed Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived.

A celebrated hero of Justice. The golden boy of Prophecy. An elegant doll for Fate.

The _Chosen_ One.

Harry Potter was the Wizarding world's shiniest token—and they weren't about to let him forget it.

They showered him with obsequious praises, intolerant criticisms, and constant looks of expectation.

Expectations of hope, of love, of eventual _failure_.

Love him or hate him, no one ever forgets Harry Potter.

Just as Harry Potter can never forget himself.

A tragedy, perhaps?

Harry would often like to think so, but just as equally often, he refrains. He'd rather _not_ be shoved so easily into one of Freud's cynical little archetypes.

But still, tragic hero or not, Harry simply didn't revel in the attention he was given.

Appreciate it? Yes. At times.

Care for it? Not in the _slightest_.

The way people looked at him was always a bother. Whether it be looks of wonder or glares of hatred; it was all equally irritating.

Like a persistent itch of constant judgement, Harry simply wished for the niggling feeling to depart in ease—rather than for him to scratch his face off in effort to be rid of it.

He didn't do things to be stared at. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

Harry could hardly handle himself properly in private, let alone be anyone's subject of awe and reverence.

Though Harry hated to let people down, he didn't want anyone to expect anything from him either.

Expectation breeds many things, and more often than not, it's never anything good.

Harry didn't want people to just unconditionally give him their loyalty, to so easily give in their blind faith and unwavering hope. But more importantly, he didn't want to be the one _take _away such things from someone.

No matter how easily they give, Harry found nothing simple about taking.

He's learned, quite a few times over the years gone by, that there's always a price—_always _something to be exchanged.

Hermione calls him cynical, but whether or not he's cynical, pessimistic, or simply disillusioned, Harry knows that he's right. At least on the basis of things, he is.

He doesn't deserve anything more than anyone else, so why would anything be given to him for free?

But just as Harry didn't believe in simplicity, he equally refused the notion of exchanging one favour for another. Whether the favour is explicitly described or not.

If he were to follow his own perceptions of philosophy: if functionality is desired, when something is taken, there must always be a replacement given in exchange to fill the void left behind.

Not only does this result in a tediously continuous cycle of exchanges, it it causes an eventual dependence upon the system.

A dangerous sort of dependence that Harry can't afford.

What will happen there's nothing left for him to give back to all those who have chosen to give?

Harry wasn't interested in finding out.

Quite contrary to popular belief, he didn't save the world over and _over_ again with the purpose of getting people to notice him—to _love_ him.

Sure, being risen up onto a pedestal of worship and confidence wasn't exactly a horrible thing, but it didn't serve as his main source of motivation.

Harry liked to think he was better than that.

And even if he wasn't—if, deep down, he was truly a horribly shallow and shakingly insecure bloke who needs self-validation through others—he still knew that falling from a pedestal is far worse than simply falling.

Wasn't it said that Lucifer had once shone the brightest of all the angels?

Look how _that_ turned out.

Harry would rather _not_ be compared to the Devil.

However, irony was almost as much of a bitch as fate.

Within a moment, it decided to strike out him with a poetic sort of _in_justice.

Within a mere moment, Harry Potter fell from the sky in a similar fashion to the way Lucifer did from Heaven, and just as the Devil became acquainted with the pit and the inferno, Harry was introduced to his own set of Hell.

It only took a simple moment for Harry Potter to fall—literally_ fall_—and within another spare moment; he realized that Hell wasn't much different from Heaven.

_Perhaps there isn't any real differentiation_, he thought warily.

…

…

…

The people still stared.

* * *

The first thing Harry noticed as he fell was that the sky was an inky dark blue, deep and extensive like peering into the ocean at midnight. The indigo was speckled with iridescent little stars, and he swore that some even dared to wink cheekily at him.

It was beautiful—the sky—but it didn't distract him from the insistent force pulling him downwards. The push of his building momentum made him gasp aloud as it clenched at his gut, briefly winding him and disallowing his breath to return.

The second thing Harry noticed was the harsh burn of a flame licking at his bare forearm and the viscous trail of wax tracking hotly across the underside of his jaw.

He wanted to scream at the heated pain, but as the stench of burnt flesh—_his_ burnt flesh—wafted through his sinuses, Harry could only swallow the sound in effort to prevent from heaving upon himself within the same motion.

The acrid taste of sickness clung harshly against the back of his throat, biting cruelly at his tastebuds and sliding with exaggerated disgust on the roof of his mouth.

He had to prevent himself from retching twice more.

The last thing Harry noticed, as the cutting wind scraped at the pale flesh he bared, was that the ground was hard. Much harder than he'd anticipated.

Although some talented bloke had taken it upon himself to perform a lovely little cushioning charm beneath him—Harry could feel the ground transfiguring with sudden ease against his back—said talented bloke and his handy little charm were a moment too late.

If only it had been a moment sooner...

Harry could feel the crack of his vertebral column vibrate along each vertebrae, and the sharp sound of break was almost deafening as it rolled through his eardrums like a continuously crashing wave.

The ground was really, _really _hard.

The first and last thing Harry Potter realized, before his world faded slowly into the webs of black obscuring his sight, was that he was in the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

_It's been a while_, he thought, almost dubious in his nostalgia, _but the sky has never been that blue. At least, not since..._ The pain prevented a coherent continuation of that process of thought.

Though blue sky or not, Harry recognized the warm embrace of Hogwarts. Where he was unmistakable.

And from the sudden sound of the chattering—rushing into his ears with an alarming clarity—Harry reckoned with trepidation the presence of students seated within the Hall.

—_who is that?—what is that?—how did he get here?—isn't there an anti-apparition ward?—what just happened?—is it a sign?—must be the Dark Lord's doing...—Merlin, that looks like it hurts!—is he alive?—is he dead?—how is he alive?—why isn't he dead?—_

What a spectacle he must appear to be.

_Unfortunately_, he grimaced in silence, _this is nothing new._

He could feel the stares pinning down his aching body, scrutinizing as they attempted to take him apart.

As high-rushing adrenaline pumped sporadically through his veins, unfocused green eyes flicked wildly about the room in effort to flesh out his dubious surroundings.

Sparkling periwinkle blue robes came into sight; pointed and obnoxious.

Familiarity struck out at him, and the sight nearly blinded him.

_Albus Dumbledore_, was Harry's first thought, immediately followed by a bewildered second thought, _No. It can't be. He's as dead as dead can be._

But those twinkling blue eyes—though they didn't quite twinkle at the moment—were irrefutable in their existence.

Harry closed his eyes tiredly; he felt a heavy fog mist over his mind, letting the tension in his body ease away and heightening the steady sound of his own heartbeat against his eardrums. It lulled him carefully into a trance-like state.

Though his body was trying to shut him down with its soothing slowness, Harry couldn't help the lingering thoughts that persisted at his consciousness.

He struggled to open his eyes; he had to be sure—of what? He didn't exactly know, but he had to be sure of _something_.

Glazed emerald green eyes stare deeply into wistful blue memories.

_Dumbledore. Albus–fucking–Dumbledore_, he paused, _is alive... _

_**How**?_

The stability of his sanity was often fickle, but he had never an opportunity to truly consider it.

As the darkness closed in on him, Harry was almost thankful that he fainted from blood loss and head trauma before the opportunity came to pass.

A question of sanity is a question in itself.

...

...

...

Questions that Harry Potter wasn't sure he could answer.

* * *

To say Tom Riddle was irritated would be an understatement.

Romulus Lestrange had somehow managed to snag the seat next to him, much to Tom's dismay.

Hearing Lestrange bootlick was a rather tedious affair under normal circumstances, but having the boy whimper thoughtlessly into his ear like some mindless sycophant was doubly so.

It takes a surprising amount of effort to keep his features untouched by any emotion other than pure boredom whilst having to listen to Lestrange go on and on and _on_.

Glancing at the boy seated to his left, Tom manages to keep his lips from grimacing in disgust. Shrugging off the urge to puke on Lestrange—because he was practically panting with need against Tom's neck—he angled himself away, turning to look pointedly at the boy seated to his right.

"Where is your cousin, Orion?" he hissed impatiently, sparing another quick glare at Lestrange before staring down at the grey-eyed boy to his right.

"Which one, my lord?" Orion Black enquired dully, his stoic facial features belying no taunt in his words despite their intention. "After all, we're all somewhat tied in blood. If one takes into consideration the amount of effort put into keeping our families pure of taint, the number of cousins I have are as numerous as the amount of _admirers _you've acquired." Sly grey eyes flick nonchalantly towards Lestrange as a smug smirk traced at his thin lips.

Tom's facial features didn't change from its mask of blank composure, but he did give the Black scion a look that said something along the lines of, "One more utter of pointed insolence and I shall rip your tongue from your mouth with the use of your very own hand so as to not concern myself with dirtying mine by having to reach into any one of your orifices. Then, as you lay in sufferance, I will set Lestrange upon you and watch him feast."

Getting the message, Black softly cleared his throat and bowed his head in apology. However, a faint smirk still curled at his lips as he spoke, "My apologies. It was unwise of me to tease, especially since my cousin's lack of presence allows for that vexatious buzzing at your ear." He mockingly simpered, placing a hand to his heart in a feigned gesture of honesty, "Please, my lord, accept my humblest apologies."

Tom resisted the urge to sigh in exasperation.

Orion Black's endeavour to crack his façade had been entertaining at first, but recently it was rapidly descending into a constant source of irritation. The persistent provocation had become boring in its perpetual insistence, evolving from a petty amusement into something of a chore.

"Spare me, Black," he drawled, the bite clear and sharp in his tone. "Every second you waste spouting these torturously irritating remarks is another second added to the amount of time I shall enjoy torturing you. Except, of course I won't be using my _words_ to do so."

Black struggled with his own composure as he felt the heat of the other boy's threat. He looked away. A miniscule bead of cold sweat trickled down his pale neck as he clenched his jaw tightly. The taut tendons beneath his pale skin throbbed with obvious tension.

Tom smirked at Black's downcast gaze of obedience.

_He was getting much too audacious_, he mentally sneered. _So much so that I was almost uncertain that he would be able to reign himself in. At least not before I got to torture him. A pity, that. _Tom smirked to himself for a moment._ But then again, blatant disregard or no, when have I ever needed a reason to deal out a bit of pain?_

"Nothing to say anymore, Orion?" Tom hissed beneath his breath, leaning just a hairbreadth away from the grey-eyed boy. "Where are your pretty words now?" he whispered into the other boy's ear, almost seductive if not for its sinister undertone. "Have you somehow managed to swallow that silver-tongue of yours?"

Black visibly gulped. He turned his face away in genuine apology and submission. His humiliation and dread were told through the tremble of his pale lips.

Using a deceptively gentle finger, Tom turned his face back. Lifting Black's pointed chin, he stared deep into the other boy's uncertain grey eyes.

_Such fear_, he practically purred at the sight._ I'm glad to see that Orion Black has not yet lost sight of the true power within this 'relationship' of ours. He should be as pleased as I am that he is still able to acknowledge his betters._ Roughly throwing away the boy's chin, Tom dragged his fingers along the collar of the boy's velvety robes. Flicking his hand away, as if to cleanse the dirt from his fingertips, he smiled cruelly._ As I'm sure his parents will appreciate the fact that I do not yet need to kill him and deprive them of yet another son._

"Well, Orion?" he finally prompted.

It took a moment for the Black scion to reply.

"Forgive me," Black eventually uttered, the smooth confidence evidently lacking from his speech. "I've been deplorably impudent in both my words and actions, my lord. I only seek yet another chance to serve you, as a humble servant to the cause and to you as my master."

"And yet," Tom drawled, "While you beseech me with your failing silver-tongue, pandering out those meaningless words that you think I wish to hear," he paused, eyes narrowing dangerously, "You _still_ haven't told me where your idiot cousin is."

Black paled.

"Now, now, Tom," an irritating simper broke out from Tom's left before the grey-eyed boy could speak. "Orion's always been rather deaf and dumb. _Disobedient_. Like a rabid dog, I'd say. You should just teach him a lesson and be done with it. There's no use for inbred dogs like Black at our esteemed table." He fixated upon Tom, eyes sparkling with maddened glee. "We taught the last one that, didn't we, Tom?"

Tom turned cold green eyes towards Lestrange, impassivity blandly colouring his features. Beside him, he could feel Black's magic tense. He could see the frigid strands crackle hazardously against its surroundings, snapping against Black's control.

Tom peered at the grey-eyed boy with a quick look of disapproval. Black allowed wild emotion to veil over his normally inscrutable countenance with such quick ease that it left Tom wondering if the boy had fallen victim to some sort of whiplash.

Black's grey eyes lost their lacklustre consent of defeat as he narrowed them viciously. Dull grey became sharp and unyielding as they pierced into the Lestrange with a feral sort of intensity that Tom could only describe as crazed. Though it is often merely meant as a figurative quote of speech; in that moment, it literally seemed as if Black might just succeed in killing Lestrange with only his glare.

"I'd watch my tongue, my dear Romulus," he hissed softly, harsh and menacing.

"Else what, Black?" Lestrange retorted with a careless sneer. "I doubt a inbred beast like you could put two brain cells together, let alone do anything about the way I run my tongue," he taunted. "Your brother certainly wasn't able to, so I'd be surprised if _you _were."

Black was quick to draw his wand, but practical enough to keep it just under the table to distract from unwanted attention.

Tom bit back another sigh. Dealing with an impudent Black was one thing, but now he had to deal with both Black _and_ the simpering idiot Lestrange?

_I should just kill them both and get it over with_, he thought wistfully. _If only we weren't in the Great Hall and Albus Dumbledore didn't exist..._

Deciding to cut in before Black could curse Lestrange into a boneless mass of obscured flesh, he spoke with a low hiss of command, "Else you wish to lose a hand, Black, I suggest you withdraw that wand." Lestrange let out a deranged giggle as the other boy clenched his jaw tightly and reluctantly sheathed his wand back into the velvet folds of his robes.

Tom glanced around, meeting Lestrange's sycophantic smile with one of his own feigned grins. The brown-eyed boy sighed in admiration, much to Tom's disgust.

"And you, Lestrange—" he addressed coolly.

"—Yes, my lord?" Lestrange was eager to cut in, practically trembling in excitement as words slipped mindlessly from his loose tongue.

Annoyed that he was interrupted—and by the primary source of his entire night's irritation, at that—Tom stealthily jabbed his pale white wand into Lestrange's sternum before either could blink.

His kind smile was kept deceptively in place.

Lestrange gasped at the harsh pain digging into his chest from the pointed tip of the wand.

"Don't fucking interrupt me, please and thank you," Tom admonished gently. "I'd hate to have to make your ribs eat out your internal organs while such a lovely feast is taking place around us," he purred, "as that would probably make everyone lose their appetite for all the wondrous food we've been presented with." His attention didn't stray as he addressed Black, "That would be quite the tragedy, now, wouldn't it, Orion?"

"Quite so," Black drawled casually, a pleased smirk pulling lightly at his lips as Lestrange winced. His grey eyes were callous and bloodthirsty, belying his agreeable tone. "_Especially_ if all these poor souls are exposed to Lestrange's disgusting countenance in addition to the fact that he would _literally _be eating himself out—an atrocity in itself, I think. In fact, I fear that Lestrange would induce more than a loss of appetite." He shook his head admonishingly, mockery alight in his gaze.

Tom dug his wand harsher into Lestrange's chest. He found himself more annoyed than gratified by the boy's garbled plea for forgiveness.

"Do you think that many would lose their dinner as well due to Lestrange's unsightly display?" he queried with false curiousity.

"Of course," Black replied conversationally, unmindful of Lestrange's gasps of pain. "Wouldn't you?"

Tom hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I couldn't say. I've found myself having to adapt to his nauseating presence, seeing that he fancies lingering around me so often." He smiled proudly at Black and commented thoughtfully, "Actually, it happens that I may have even worked up an immunity; I have yet to lose my lunch whilst being in such close proximity. 'Tis quite an unfortunate—or fortunate, depending on perspective—how I've grown so used to his unsightliness."

Lestrange's eyes watered, but he dare not let the tears fall in fear of both the possibility of further punishment and the certainty of torture if unwanted attention were to fall upon them.

"Either way, I find it quite admirable, my lord," Black praised dutifully, "though I highly doubt that _I_ have such perseverance. To think of the length of time in his presence you've had to endure to earn such an achievement. I'm almost in awe of your feat."

"You flatter me, Orion," Tom chuckled heartily though his green eyes were devoid of humour, remaining as cold and cruel as they've always been. "It's a practiced art, I assure you. Even _I _had not achieved such with unobstructed ease." Lestrange whimpered loudly. "_Silencio_," he purred the spell, rolling its syllables against his tongue. Tom dug the pale tip of his wand deeper with a quick vindictive jab. "Hush now, Lestrange, my friend. We wouldn't want anyone to interfere with our _intimate_ little affair here, now, would we?" he whispered into Lestrange's ear. His tone was husky and soothing, but filled with enough dark promises to warn a sane individual off.

Granted, Romulus Lestrange most definitely _wasn't_ sane.

Tom detested the unconscious glaze of lust that fogged over Lestrange's terrified brown eyes. In response, he stabbed his wand into Lestrange's chest so hard that the boy could not help but scream in silent agony, a knee simultaneously jerking up to hit the bottom of the table.

The clatter of silverware and Lestrange's watering eyes drew a few too many eyes towards them, forcing Tom to adopt a sympathetic expression while veiling his blatant disgust. "Oh dear, Romulus," he addressed—loud and clear for all the nosy spectators who peered curiously at them. His brows furrowed in worry as his wand dragged down towards the boy's thigh hidden beneath the table. "You hit your knee rather hard, didn't you? Do you need any _help _with it?" Tom prompted with a kind smile. He narrowed his eyes at Lestrange, daring him to disobey in any way, shape, or form.

Lestrange found himself unsure of whether or not his lord wished him to shake his head in denial or nod in acquiescence.

If he shook his head, claiming to need no help, then Tom would most likely resume hexing the bones of his ribcage until they truly did puncture a lung or two. However; if he nodded, Tom would surely help him out, if only to maintain his image as the kind, helpful Head Boy.

Although Lestrange was rather unnerved by what Tom's definition of 'help' could be, he couldn't resist the want to feel his lord's destructive magic wash over his unworthy being.

Tentatively, Lestrange tilted his head into a nod of assent, almost panting in silent anticipation.

Tom really had to hold back his bile this time, Lestrange's hot breath wafting onto his face.

_The nerve of this psychotic imbecile_, Tom thought with distaste; Lestrange's wish to be cursed was in no way subtle. He inched back, deliberating a way to effectively torture the other boy without the entirety of the Hall noticing. _Merlin, I feel my magic being tainted by the mere notions that dare to float about that empty head of his_, he thought, restraining his urge to cringe away_. Perhaps this is the only time I'd admit that being a practiced master of Legilimency is not to my current advantage._

Withdrawing his wand entirely, Tom turned to Black with a blank smile.

"Deal with him," he murmured under his breath, though clear enough for his message to be heard. Black smirked, tilting his head in compliance. Enunciating louder, Tom said with abashed modesty, "I'm afraid I haven't been brushing up on my healing spells recently. I should be ashamed, really." He sheepishly rubbed the back of his head, eyes downcast. "Lestrange looks really hurt, Orion. He's even breaking out in cold sweat from the pain. I want to help out, but I wouldn't want to make it worse..." he trailed off sadly.

The students from the next table over looked at him with foolish sympathy while his own unsuspecting housemates looked on with empty reverence.

_Clever, handsome Tom Riddle has the ability to admit ignorance. 'How admirable,' they must be sighing within the confines of their naïve little minds_, Tom scoffed silently in mockery. _'Is he human after all?' they inquire thoughtfully to themselves. _He smirks imperceptibly at the thought. _What a good question._

"Don't sweat it, Tom. You've got a plenty of other things to deal with, after all," Black replies with a feigned look of comfort. He continues with a cold smile written across his often stoic features, turning to Lestrange as he speaks, "Cygnus, my younger cousin, is always getting injured from Quidditch, so I know _just_ the spell to help Lestrange out. No worries, really."

"Thanks, Orion," Tom acknowledged, nodding in appreciation as an angelic smile pulled readily at his full lips.

Black drew his wand slowly with crisp anticipation; his grey eyes are glacial but heated anger simmered beneath the surface. The smile dropped as his arm extended forward, the tip of his blackthorn wand glowing as dark as both its namesake and owner.

"I'm glad to be of service."

However, before Lestrange could whimper, or Black curse the boy, Tom raised his finger in a sudden command of halt.

Both Black and Lestrange seemed taken aback by the motion, but as they opened their mouths in question, Tom waved his hand in an abrupt gesture, thinly veiled impatience written across his face as he bid them to be silent.

...

...

...

He saw it before anyone else.

* * *

Tom had caught a slight fluctuation in the existence of magic surrounding the Great Hall, just before Black had released his curse. He'd done well to stop it; the other boy most likely would've smothered the strangely errant flux had he been successful in releasing his potent Dark magic.

Entranced, Tom ignored both Black and Lestrange's gapes of confusion.

He followed the bare strands of foreign magic with wide-eyed curiousity. The wisping aura of pure magic was starkly visible against that of Hogwarts' own, leading him slowly up to the twinkling night sky that engulfed the ceiling.

_I've_, he paused unevenly, not believing his own sight, _I've never seen such a thing. _Tom was momentarily stupefied, a look of pure awe tracing across his often still features. _It's like this thing, this magic, it has the ability to bend the very existence of magic itself. Single-handedly, at that. _He felt himself tense as a trace of unconscious jealousy tinged his thoughts, _All my arrogance aside, I am unsure of my own probability of success if I ever attempted such a feat alone. Though I doubt... _his thoughts trailed off dangerously. _To be able to bend Hogwarts' magic is indeed quite a feat. _Tom narrowed his eyes. _An impossibility most would even say._

No longer awestruck or childishly curious, Tom could feel a hunger claw up from within him, dragging languorously against his very being.

_I want that power._

He looked on with glinting eyes as the foreign magic stretched a hole messily against the surrounding aura, tearing mercilessly as it went.

_I **want** that power._

The hole enlarged, scratching and cracking against Hogwarts' magic as it forced its way open.

Tom's eyes were a bloodied red, his knuckles pure white.

_And if it weren't so cliché, I'd say something along the lines of, 'I always get what I want'._

...

...

...

The dark haired boy who fell... wasn't part of the plan.

—

* * *

_.to be continued._

* * *

—


	2. II

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything I don't own. Simple as that._

**Title:** Of What Once Was.

**Rating: **M.

**Pairings: **Slash. Tom Riddle Jr. / Harry Potter.

**Warnings**: This is a slash-fiction. Includes pre-slash. Relationships with minors. Time Travel. Swearing. Violence. Sexual Content. etc.

...

_.commence thy reading._

* * *

**Of What Once Was**

—

**Chapter II**

—

Harry Potter awoke with an odd sense of déjà vu.

Green eyes, bleared by lethargy, blinked slowly at the familiar feel of his surroundings.

Starched sheets scratched with nostalgia against aching flesh.

Fresh herbs scented musky through stifled sinuses.

The sunlight casted multi-faceted triangles across a battered complexion.

He could feel everything, yet nothing at all.

Trying to sit up, he groaned as a wave of intense pain washed over him.

"Dearie, dearie me," a chipper voice—a woman's, Harry assumed from the pitch—clucked in admonishment, "Please don't squirm around like so."

Harry instinctively moved for his wand with a heavy hand. It felt as if his hand had suddenly gained both Dudley's weight and mass to his addled state of mind.

Despite the effort it took simply twitch the tips of his fingers, he forced a hand to flop against his stiff, aching body in a poor attempt at a desperate pat-down. Much to his dismay, his wand was nowhere to be found upon his... gowned figure.

He wrinkled his nose upon realizing his attire—a hideous piece of cloth that someone sought reasonable to wrap him into.

_How is wearing this uncomfortable bag-like dress supposed to help me in any way, shape, or form?_ Harry thought with a grimace, eyes glaring accusingly down at the faded infirmary gown. _These thin little pieces of cotton aren't reasonable, no matter how hard you try at it_. He frowned as the material gave him a persistent itch right at the center of his back, both irritating and unreachable due his prone position. _If I wanted to prance around in a scratchy little dress, I'd just borrow Aunt Petunia's 'Sunday best'. At least that hideous affair has pockets, is made of expensive cashmere, and looks severe enough to scare away a larger variety of germs._

"Are you alright, boy?" the chipper voice returned, pulling Harry away from his distracted musings. It came from his right side, but Harry's neck was so impossibly stiff that he couldn't turn.

He opened his mouth, but instead of having something reasonable like "Who are you, and where am I?" come out, a spluttered garble of insensible nonsense spilled from his lips.

Harry furrowed his brow, trying to speak once more.

The result was similar to the first; however, instead of garbled nonsense this time, it sounded as if he was trying to speak French backwards.

"Oh my," the woman chuckled, her laugh adopting her distinctively chipper tone, "What has happened to you?"

Harry frowned.

_How the fuck am I supposed to know?_ he thought in irritation. _First, I could hardly move, and now I can hardly speak. _Green eyes narrowed in dismay. _Murphy's Law, I guess. It never fails to get me. Shit. E__very. Damned. Time._

A darkened shadow loomed directed above him, casting a grey haze across his entirety. A ruddy-cheeked face came into his limited view, approaching far too close for comfort.

The sudden visage hanging only an inch or two above him made Harry jolt upwards in surprise. His head collided with something hard immediately, momentarily dazing him with a headache.

"Ow!" the source of collision yelped, no longer chipper. "That _bloody _hurts!"

Seated upright with an impossibly aching head, Harry wanted to snark back with equal vigour. However, he didn't want to end up spluttering nonsense again, so Harry settled for simply glaring angry daggers at the woman whom he knocked into.

"_Miss Pomfrey_!" interjected a stern voice, halting the woman's antics.

Peering from the corner of his eyes, Harry briefly noted sternly cut outer-robes and a deep frown approaching them from the entrance door.

"Headmaster Dippet," the woman greeted, a thin sheen of red dotted embarrassment across her face, "I was just, uh, well, you see..." she trailed off uncertainly.

"I don't _care_, Miss Pomfrey," Dippet replied dismissively. "Please cease your spluttering as it is most undignified."

"S-sorry. I mean, beg pardon, uh, Headmaster Dippet, sir."

_'Dippet'_, Harry mused, _where have I heard that before?_

The man finally came to a stop beside Harry's bedside. He gave Miss Pomfrey a disdainful sniff before turning to Harry. with an equally disapproving glare.

"My name is Armando Dippet, current Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he stated, "and _you_, boy, have caused quite the amount of trouble since your arrival."

As the stern old man paused to give Harry a levelled stare down his weathered, aquiline nose, Harry wasn't certain as to how to respond_—_if he even _could_respond without spouting out nonsensical babbles.

Instead, he cautiously nodded his head in hesitant ascension.

"So you are aware then," Dippet stated, "of the abominable _disaster_ you've made of my Start-of-Term Feast."

Again, Harry tilted his head into a hesitantly apologetic nod.

"Then—as the Headmaster of Britain's most established school of Magic—I'm to demand your name and see to that you have paid proper penance for the abhorrent crime you've committed," the elder man barked with gradually heating anger. He narrowed his eyes in decision. "I'd say a stay in Azkaban would far too lenient for your sins of Dark Magic, especially as you've dared to commit them on _my _grounds."

_'Crime'?_ he wondered in alarm as Dippet drew his wand. _What crime? Dark Magic? What is happening?_

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but the elderly Headmaster cut him off with a warning jab of his wand forward.

"Do not speak!" he commanded. "I wish not for the taint of your words to echo my halls," he sneered. "Now, boy, what is your name? I wish to give the Ministry the name of their criminal before I send you off my grounds."

Harry remained mum. Green eyes peered warily at the crooked wand beneath his nose.

_But you told me not to speak_... he thought, indignant.

"Well, boy? _Speak _up!" The man's tone was unforgiving.

Rethinking his stubborn chagrin at being ordered about, Harry sought to form the proper words but, as before, tongue-twisting babble spilled from his lips uncontrollably.

"_Come again_, boy?" Dippet demanded harshly. "I dare say I'd be more than glad to exact a punishment if that was some obscure form of attempt at the Dark Arts."

"Now, now, Armando," a familiar voice rang into the room, chuckling jovially, "The boy merely has an interesting take on the King's English. There's no need for such alarm."

_Dumbledore_, Harry noted in alarm as periwinkle blue robes practically blinded him as they came into sight. _I thought I'd merely hallucinated the old man after falling from the ceiling of the Great Hall..._

His green eyes widened as the man stepped closer.

Dumbledore reached out with thin spindly fingers, calmly shifting Dippet's threatening wand away from Harry's face.

_Fucking shit. He's fucking real. Tangible, at least._

Dumbledore chuckled heartily, earning himself odd looks all around.

"Indeed, young man," he said, "I am indeed quite real. Quite tangible, too."

_How did he_— Harry trailed off in wonder, pausing for a moment before coming to a sudden realization, _Of course. Fuck. Legilimency. Dumbledore. _Green eyes slowly strayed away from their pointed stare into twinkling blue. Instead, Harry opted to stare at the fine cracks of dried skin reddening against his pale knuckles._ Dealing with just one is usually a pain, but I completely forgot how dangerously potent the pair of them were in tandem. _Harry sweeped a glaring gaze over the auburn-haired old man. _However, although this Dumbledore is real flesh and blood, is he the real Dumbledore? _he pondered.

"Sage, my dear?" Dumbledore turned towards Miss Pomrey with a genial smile.

"Uh, yes? Yes, sir, I mean."

"I believe a bit too much dittany has been used on our young patient, no?" He peered over his half-moon spectacles with a sharp glance. "It resulted in our little language barrier, yes?" he questioned, motioning for her to bring over the potion used. Sticking one of his long, spindly fingers into the solution Miss Pomfrey handed him, he tasted a drop upon his tongue. "Good thing you didn't use just a drop more, my dear," he concluded with a solemn stare. "Now,_that _would've been rather fatal." Dumbledore finished with a light-hearted chuckle, as if to distract from his morbid statement.

Harry watched with narrowed eyes as the young woman blushed beet red, the colour stemming from the beneath her white collar and up her long neck.

_Stupid bint_, he thought rather harshly. _I wonder how she even landed this job._

"I'm sorry, Professor, I mean, uh, sir," she stammered nervously. "It's just that he came in looking like, well, like he did, and I just thought that, uh—"

"—Cease your stammering, girl!" Dippet snapped, clearly strung-up. "I didn't hire you as the infirmary nurse just so you could practice killing quicker than you can heal." He shook his head in wary disbelief. "For shame, girl. I knew I shouldn't have hired such a vacant little woman," he muttered the last bit just beneath his breath. "Criminal or not, a patient's a patient, and I doubt I'd be able to give a reasonable explanation to the Ministry if they turned up to find the boy dead," he hissed angrily. "In fact, if you had killed off the boy, I reckon _you'd _find yourself spending some quality time in Azkaban along with his corpse. Perhaps you may even share a cell with it as it rots."

Harry wasn't exactly a fan of the stern old man, but he couldn't disagree with his harsh words.

_Well, except maybe the sexist part of it. I'm not really a fan of blatant discrimination_, he reasoned. _Oh, and the part about Azkaban; I'm no advocate of that idea either. I sincerely doubt I'd want to faff about there even if I was dead rotter._

"It's alright, Armando," Dumbledore put in soothingly, "Sage had proved herself quite a competent Healer this past year. I'm sure she won't administer such a mistake again. We should all be given a chance to learn from our mistakes after all." He smiled, blue eyes twinkling. "Look on the bright side, my friend. The boy isn't dead, he just has a slight speech impediment. Nothing a few spells or potions can't fix, no?"

Harry glared at Dumbledore. _Wow. Easy for you to say. 'Nothing a few spells can't fix,' my arse._

Dippet seemed to shared Harry's sentiment, clearly not mollified by Dumbledore's words as he scoffed derisively, turning his nose up and away from the other man.

"Just tell that idiotic girl to go and fix her inane blunder before I sack her."

Miss Pomfrey didn't need another moment before she rushed off into the corner to shuffle through her potions cabinet. Swiftly, she returned with a glowing blue concoction within a dusty old vial.

"Here you are, my dear," she murmured apologetically, handing Harry the potion. "You just looked so banged up when you came in that I thought—"

"—For Merlin's sake, girl. Quit your chattering and leave us!"

Miss Pomfrey jolted, skittering away like her skirts were afire.

Harry briefly likened the man to an old rabid dog at Dippet's harsh, gravelled bark. _And Miss Pomfrey, the mailman_, he thought with brief amusement.

"Remember, my dear," Dumbledore called out as Miss Pomfrey ducked behind her desk with a flaming blush, "_L__ess_ is often more."

"Y-yes, sir. I mean, uh, Professor, sir..." she mumbled as she attempted to shrink herself into the piles of parchment scattered across the surface in front of her.

Harry quickly uncorked the vial of potion, and proceeded to hesitantly knock it back.

_I just hope I don't grow a third arm_, he thought warily as a tingling feeling began to trail irritable up his limbs, _or something..._

"So, my boy," Dumbledore started with a twinkling gaze, "What is your name?"

_They don't know me?_ _Dumbledore__—if he truly is who he appears to be—doesn't know?_ Harry wondered in apprehension. _Odd, but I'll play._

Harry opened his mouth, hesitant to reply as a tingling sensation tasted odd in his mouth. _Well, I haven't grown that third arm yet, so..._

"I, uh," he cleared his throat, relieved at his ability to speak; although, he did find his voice a tad bit higher in pitch than what he was used to. _Must be an after-effects_, he thought rationally as he continued, "I'm called Harry."

_I'd better not give them my full name_, he decided. _I don't know if this Dumbledore's really the old man_—_which isn't possible_—_or if I've somehow ended up six-feet deep in an enemy's territory_—_which is more likely than not. _Harry wouldn't be surprised if someone was using the familiarity of Dumbledore and the setting of Hogwarts to lull him into a false sense of security. He _was_ rather out of it, almost enough to buy the realism of the illusion around him. _As far as I'm concerned, all I know is that Dumbledore is a dead man and nothing was as real as watching Snape 'Avada Kedavra' him from the Astronomy tower._

"Harry?" Dippet questioned suspiciously, noting the boy's shrewd gaze and responding with his own narrowed glare.

"No last name, young man?" Dumbledore continued the line of questioning with an astute look upon his face.

_He isn't accusing me outright, but he's definitely trying to pick at something_, Harry recognized. _Quite similar to how Dumbledore used to act... This impersonator is quite good. If he is one, that is..._

Harry couldn't fathom how else Dumbledore could be living and breathing, but he'd seen things that were far stranger and far more implausible. He wasn't about to factor anything out.

_This Dumbledore even looks quite familiar, too_. _Like I've seen him before, I think._

"Well?" Dippet demanded, bringing Harry away from his thoughts.

_Right, questions. Great_. "That's right, sirs. I'm _just _Harry."

_I wish I was 'just Harry'_, he thought cynically.

The two men at his bedside gave him heavily doubtful stares, scrutinizing him under an exaggerated pause.

_They're waiting for me to crack._ Harry almost smirked._ How predictable. Too bad this ain't my first rodeo, or so the Americans say._

"Alright," Dumbledore finally conceded with an easy grin. "And _how_ did a young man like you end up in Hogwarts?"

"I—" Harry paused, stumped for a plausible reply.

_I can't tell them the truth_, he thought, _as I reckon that's what they're asking for. In fact, I'm not sure I know what exactly the truth is at the moment._

"I don't remember," he settled for, trying to sound confident regardless of his hesitancy. "Portkey accident, maybe?" he ventured with the slightest bit of cheek. "Or maybe something else; something more plausible probably."

Both men seemed to bristle at Harry's flippant reply, unamused by his feeble reasonings.

"'_Portkey accident, maybe_'?" Dippet narrowed his squinted eyes even more. "It's quite convenient that you don't remember how you've illegally breached Hogwarts' heavily warded security system. Downright incriminating, I'd say."

Dumbledore didn't speak, blue eyes assessing Harry with a placid stare.

Harry felt a probe against his mind, but the connection did not grasp onto a steady link as Harry refused to meet the nostalgic blue eyes with his own.

"Please, sirs," he simpered with a sad expression, trying to play upon the heartstrings as he realized the mistake of his previous tone. "You _must _believe me."

Dippet pursed his lips unconvinced as Dumbledore continued to stare.

"The last thing I remember is falling from somewhere, then there was a lot of pain..." he trailed off, allowing a shiver to shudder his body in an exaggerated manner, "So much _pain_. It hurt so much; I can still feel the crunch of my bones, the heat of the wax, the, the—"

Harry felt his green eyes swell with unshed tears. Though he was mostly feigning emotion to avoid suspicion and discover some answers, he could still feel the imprint of pain itching up from beneath his bones.

Dumbledore seemed to soften, but Dippet tensed.

"Falling from '_somewhere_'?" he demanded. "Where is this supposed 'somewhere', boy?" His wand was raised once more. "I better get some answers before I make those freshly healed wounds reopen, boy."

"Now, now, Armando," Dumbledore said, placating. "Let's let the boy gather himself. I'm sure he'll be more than willingly to answer _all_ our questions once he's calmed himself, yes?" Dumbledore pinned Harry with twinkling blue eyes.

Dumbledore was so genial in contrast to Dippet's harshness that Harry almost found himself nodding along complacently, agreeing to whatever the man had to say.

Harry raised his brows as he realized what the pair of them were trying to play.

_Good cop, bad cop? _He almost laughed at the thought. _Wow. Am I in a clichéd crime drama or what? I mean, do old-timer wizards actually watch things like that?_

"Harry, my boy?"

"O-of course," Harry let himself reply with a softly grateful smile, deciding to go along with Dumbledore's game. He didn't have his wand, or anything else for that matter, so he wasn't about to prove himself rebellious and end up stunned, bound, and sent straight on to Azkaban. _That would be stupid._ "Do you have any more questions for me, sirs? Perhaps I'd be able to answer with some prompting."

Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling far more than before.

Harry felt an involuntary shiver.

"You better answer our questions, boy," Dippet gritted out threateningly.

"Armando, can you not see that the boy is willing? There's no need for such a stern tone, my friend."

"I'll mind my tone when I'm certain that this little cretin isn't one of the Dark Lord's wayward spies. He recruits quite young now, I've heard. It's perfectly plausible that this boy has been trained by the Dark Lord to use his childish whims against us."

"Calm yourself, Armando. The Dark Lord is many things, but I doubt he was patient enough to train children to his cause. Even if he were, what good would come from dropping his spy from the ceiling of Hogwarts?"

"Perhaps it is a warning. That man has come up with far more gruesome things with far less point than this."

_Dark Lord? _Harry wondered in alarm. _Voldemort's dead, isn't he?_

"Wait, sirs," Harry ventured cautiously, "_W__hat_ Dark Lord are we talking about?"

Both men paused, giving him equal looks of disbelief.

"Grindelwald, boy," Dippet finally answered, spitting the name like it was foul, "As _you _should well know."

"Grindelwald!" Harry shouted with genuine alarm. _What the fuck?_ _Wasn't Grindelwald_—

"Don't feign, boy," Dippet interrupted Harry's thoughts with his stern tone. "As soon as the Ministry arrives, we shall see how you hold up under Veritaserum."

"Armando..." Dumbledore trailed off, shaking his head as if in disappointment. "You've called the _Ministry_ over this?"

"Of course I did!" Dippet retorted indignantly. "A boy fell, without alarm, from the ceiling of our Great Hall, successfully penetrating the impregnable Magics of Hogwarts like it was child's play. Tell me that isn't worthy of the Ministry's attention. _You'd_ have done the same as me, Albus."

"I—" Dumbledore pursed his lips, "I don't believe I would have brought such dire attention to the situation as you have."

"_Excuse me_?"

Harry tuned out the rest of their argument as he tried to process the information that he'd been given, the blatantly obvious slapping him across the face like a sledgehammer.

_Shit! Shitshitshit_, he thought, mentally paralyzed for the briefest of moments. _Shit! Merlin, I should have noticed the obvious_, Harry scolded himself. _I've travelled through time, haven't I? How could I have missed the obvious? I'm no Hermione Granger, but I didn't think I was this ignorant._ He shook his head, flummoxed by the current situation and his apparent ignorance in regards to it._ Ginger-headed Dumbledore—__ginger__ Dumbledore—is obviously alive, Old Armando Dippet is the previous Headmaster, and Grindelwald is the fucking Dark Lord who preceded Voldemort. _Harry worried at his dry lips. _But how could I have travelled time when I_—

The loud echo of heavy wooden doors slamming open jolted all the occupants of the infirmary; it interrupted Harry's bewildered train of thought, paused the heating arguement between Dippet and Dumbledore, and caused Miss Pomfrey to let out a startled shriek.

A handsome, twenty-something year old wizard stormed in flanked by an small accompaniment of wizards dressed in Auror robes.

"Minister Diggory!" Dippet attempted to greet without the obvious surprise tingeing his tone.

"Eldritch, my boy," Dumbledore greeted more jovially, "how can we help you and your men?"

"Headmaster, Professor," the man nodded curtly towards each men in greeting. "I've been informed that you apprehended one of Grindelwald's spies." His face was stony, gaze unforgiving. "I've come to collect."

Dumbledore turned to Dippet with an accusing stare, barely raising his auburn brows in question.

"You told him the boy was a _spy_, Armando?"

"Well, yes, of course I did," Dippet replied defensively. "I thought that it was safe to assume such, seeing that the boy had literally come out from nowhere and breached our walls with no explanation."

Dumbledore gave the man a hard stare before turning back to the handsome Minister.

"I believe that Armando may have misinformed you, my boy."

"Excuse you?" Minister Diggory questioned with an unamused frown.

"You see, my boy—"

"—I'm the Minister now, Dumbledore," Diggory cut him off with a curt tone, "and I expect to be referred to as such, _sir_."

"My apologies, _Minister_," Dumbledore continued calmly, "But as you can see," he stated whilst motioning behind him towards Harry, who sat in dumbfounded silence upon the infirmary bed, "We haven't apprehended a criminal but a—"

"—Hadrian Peverell?"

To Harry's confusion, he realized that the handsome Minister was speaking to _him_.

The man peered at him with an expectant smile upon his lips.

Harry looked around uncertainly for a nonexistent answer.

...

...

...

"Who the _bloody hell_ is that?"

—

* * *

._to be continued._

* * *

—


	3. III

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything I don't own. Simple as that._

**Title:** Of What Once Was.

**Rating: **M.

**Pairings: **Slash. Tom Riddle Jr. / Harry Potter.

**Warnings**: This is a slash-fiction. Includes pre-slash. Relationships with minors. Time Travel. Swearing. Violence. Sexual Content. etc.

...

_.commence thy reading._

* * *

**Of What Once Was**

—

**Chapter III**

—

"Who the _bloody hell_ is that?"

...

...

...

The words tumbled from his lips quickly, almost uncontrollably.

Harry blinked, cringing inward as the question replayed itself within his mind.

_Crap_, he thought, _I probably should have went along with that... _

He glanced between the varying expressions colouring the occupants of the infirmary, eyes finally focusing upon the tall, brown-haired Minister._ Though it's definitely not possible that he does, this bloke seems to know me; I should have just taken what he gave me and used it to my advantage. _Harry sighed inwardly. _Why didn't I think of that before I decided to open the useless gaping hole on my face? They probably think I'm twice as suspicious now._

Harry found himself increasingly tensed, watching with veiled uncertainty as the Aurors suspiciously narrowed their eyes and gave him a scrutinizing stare.

Dippet had already drawn his wand once more.

Harry had to stop himself from nervously chewing at his lips, trying to keep himself composed whilst attempting to figure out how to proceed.

_When has it ever been a good idea to contradict the Minister, Harry? _he asked himself scornfully. _Oh, right. Never. Now I'm going to have to somehow weasel myself out of another mess while simultaneously avoiding the growing Ministry suspicious._ He sighed once more. _Great._

However, the young Minister spoke up before Harry could come up with a plausible excuse.

"Do you not recognize me, Hadrian?" he asked, tone soft and cajoling. It seemed like he were speaking to a small animal rather than a boy. "Do you really not know who I am?"

_Uh, no. Not in the slightest, mate_, Harry thought, somewhat uncertain about the grim look of sadness flitting through the young Minister's eyes. The man seemed almost hurt by his own questions, as if he were in disbelief for having to voice them out loud. _However, while I have no clue who you are, and haven't the foggiest as to why you think I should know you, I am rather grateful for the opening you've unknowingly given me._

"W-well," Harry forced himself to stammer, adopting an exaggerated tone of confusion as he continued, "I can't exactly remember... I think I..." He placed a hand to his forehead, kneading at it dramatically as he cringed with a feigned headache. He imagined himself as Draco Malfoy as he did so, finding it much easier to act duplicitous whilst portraying the Slytherin rather than himself.

Plus, Draco Malfoy was a rather good source of dramatic inspiration. _The silly little ferret and his silly little theatrics_, he inwardly sneered._ Always does more harm than good, but it gets the job done._

"I might," Harry spoke slowly, "know you, I think. It's not really clear, and it hurts a bit to ponder on it, sir. I've seen you before, maybe, but the memory is just so, so far away. I—" He doubled over as if suddenly pained, quickly covering his face with both hands so they couldn't see his guilty expression.

There was a tense silence.

Harry felt his hands slick with sweat, nerves getting the best of him as he tried to still the slight tremble of his fingers.

He had never been a good liar.

_And don't I know it_, he thought, almost panicked about having to lift his head up to face the doubt he imagined in everyone's eyes.

He couldn't help the instinctive wince as his thoughts strayed towards the Dursleys; Petunia hated liars, Dudley was a squealer, and Vernon was quick to hit.

They always wore doubt upon their faces when they looked at him.

They always stared at him with such disgust and disbelief; quick to shun when he needed help most, and even quicker to deny when he pleaded for mercy.

Perhaps they had tried so hard to _cleanse_ him of his 'lies' because they could see their own doubt reflect back upon them twice as clear through the green of his eyes.

Harry tensed as a sharp pain pierced through the inside of his bottom lip, the acrid flavour of blood lining against his taste buds was bitter in response to his straying thoughts.

_No_, he told himself, feeling the familiarity of heated anger bubbling beneath his skin, burning and twisting away at his insides. _Don't think of such things, Harry. Of such anger. It won't do you much good. It never has, and it likely never will_, he thought with an ample amount of resentful cynicism.

Looking up from the darkened cocoon of his hands, he chose to face the more tangible problem presented than the one churning ominously within him.

Eyes full of reticent pain, he shot the young Minister a pleading look, widening his darkly-lashed green eyes with the sole objective of garnering sympathy.

Harry wasn't skilled with deception, but he also wasn't blind to the veiled look of longing Minister Diggory had given him.

He wasn't one for exploiting other people's emotions, but at this very moment, Harry didn't see any other choice.

He was stuck in the midst of a mind-boggling situation with no plausible explanation, no wand, and no answers as to _why_.

Not to mention, telling the truth was definitely out of the question.

Harry had only time-traveled once before, with Hermione in their third-year, but they had avoided any actual contact to others in fear of changing the timeline. While he was unsure of how exactly he landed himself in another time, Harry was sure that the fickle rules of time-travel hadn't changed just because his method of travel was currently unknown.

Walking along the rapidly fraying rope of Time was one thing, but Harry wasn't brave enough to abandon all inhibition and leap from the line without a care—which is _exactly_ what telling the truth would be.

"Bad things happen to those who meddle with time," Hermione had warned on more than one occasion, and Harry wasn't about to disregard the words of a certified genius.

At least not with a _very _good reason.

_And so, duplicity and exploitation it is_, he decided reluctantly, keeping his doe-eyed gaze fixed upon the young Minister, anticipating the reaction he was sure to eventually evoke.

Sure enough, while it took another spare minute or two of watery eyes and trembling lips, Minister Diggory's hardened façade began crumbling beneath the pressure of Harry's pitiful gaze.

"Do _you _really think I'm a spy, Mister Minister?" Harry ventured further, whispering with a soft, shaky uncertainty. "Do you think I'm a bad person, sir? _Am I a bad person_?" he asked with a building hysteria, inwardly wincing at his own exaggeration of emotion, but he knew that turning the line of questioning around onto the besotted Minister would give him more of an offensive advantage rather than forcing him to maintain a steady defence. "I want to remember. I want to _know_. I, I, j-just can't, I can't, I _can't_—" Harry somehow managed to make himself let out a tear or two; they slid with a slow drama down his pallid cheeks.

The young Minister practically fell apart at the sight before him, quickly rushing forward. He reached for Harry with a comforting hand, but thought twice before withdrawing uncertainly when Harry flinched away from his touch.

"It's alright," the Minister tried soothingly, guilt written across his handsome features. "You're okay. Everything will be fine, everything will be—"

"—_It won't_," Harry let himself protest shrilly. "Nothing ever good happens to bad people. I _am_ a bad person, aren't I?"

"You aren't," the Minister replied with a surprising amount of conviction. "You are _not_ a bad person, Hadrian."

"No, no, _no_." He shook his head, tossing his hair wildly in emphasis. "I am. I _am_. You _all_ think so, don't you?" He swept the room with an accusing gaze.

"No one—"

"—Stop lying! The old men think I'm a spy, the Aurors think I'm a Dark Lord's pet, and _you... _You believe them all, don't you? I can see it!" he shouted angrily, words spieling out with exaggerated petulance. _I wonder if I'm making this situation any better, or just a whole lot worse_, Harry briefly pondered; he had a feeling that his act was getting slightly out of hand as his voice cracked in hysteria. Gathering his wits, he continued with a much more subdued tone, "You think I'm bad—evil, even. You_ don't _believe me_._"

The Minister stammered out his response with almost a pleading edge to his tone, "I, I do believe you, Hadrian. It's just that—" he paused, seemingly unsure how to proceed. "You have to understand how everything looks. You showed up out of nowhere..." he trailed off as Harry made a show of sniffling loudly. Liquid green eyes peered up at him helplessly from beneath sooty lashes. "_But_," he quickly amended, "I'm _certain_ there's a perfectly plausible explanation for that. Hadrian, we're just trying to cover all our bases here. I understand that you can't remember, and that's _completely_ alright. I doubt that incriminates you as much as it may seem. I just want you to try and fill our blanks, alright? I'm not accusing you of anything, and I don't want you to hurt yourself over something that most likely isn't your fault."

Harry looked down at his hands, picking at the dry flakes of flesh with blunted fingernails. _Maybe acting like an insufferable brat _is_ working out for me_, he realized, slightly flabbergasted. _This Minister guy is certainly easily malleable... _Harry noted._ Maybe I should push it a little more_, he considered thoughtfully.

"You _say_ you believe me, but you still think I'm a liar, don't you, Mister Minister?" Harry licked at his dry lips, feeling waves of emotion roll off of his target and reach out towards him in comfort. "Spies are liars. Everyone says I'm a spy. You must think _I'm _a liar, then." Green eyes shot up, blank of emotion yet piercingly cold. "So, therefore, I must be a bad person if I'm both."

"You are _not_," the Minister stated with no lack of certainty, lips pulling into a scolding frown. "A bad person, that is. I hadn't even thought to accuse you of being a spy, no matter what others have baselessly assumed. You are a good boy, Hadrian."

Harry peered up with a frown. "How can you be so sure, sir?"

"I know you, Hadrian. I believe in you."

_But you don't, sir. Know me, that is_, he thought sardonically. _'I believe in you', you say..._

Shaking himself from such thoughts, Harry questioned the Minister with a doubtful expression, "Are you _sure_ you don't think I'm the Dark Lord's spy?"

"I," the Minister exhaled, "I don't think you're a spy."

"Really?" He gave Minister Diggory a suspicious glance. "Really, _really_?"

"_Really_."

Harry hummed uncertainly, trying to pull for a direct statement.

"You _aren't_ a spy, Hadrian," the Minister declared confidently.

Harry smiled winningly up at the man in response, a gesture that was quickly—almost _too_ eagerly—returned.

He felt a smug sense of delight at the Minister's words, especially as it had been _him_ who steered the man towards them. Him, as in—Harry Potter, the most horridly pathetic liar ever.

_Goodbye, Azkaban_, he cheered inwardly.

"_Sir_," a short wizard with a gruff beard protested from behind the Minister. "You can't—"

Minister Diggory's eyes flashed, he cut the man off with a disparaging sneer, "I believe, _Edgecombe_," he addressed the man with a harsh bite in his tone, "that _I'm_ the Minister of Magic, no?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Then," the Minister spat distastefully, "I believe it would be safe to say that I can make my own decisions, without you lot constantly lurking over my shoulder." The Auror bristled at the snide tone, but the Minister paid it no mind. "I'm aware of what you, _all _of you," he emphasized, sweeping his gaze over the entire group of Aurors, "think of me. You believe I'm too young for this job, too inexperienced and naïve. But, of _all_ the candidates, it was _me_who stepped up in this time of need, _not_ one of _you_." Auror Edgecombe looked away, face reddening. The others appeared similarly uncomfortable, shuffling and fidgeting under the young Minister's heavy stare. "Contrary to your beliefs, I know what I'm doing, and I shall only warn you all once that it won't do you any favours to question your superiors."

"Yes, sir. Beg pardon, sir," mumbled the disgruntled Auror. He was echoed by his fellow colleagues.

Neither Dippet nor Dumbledore had spoken up during the entire exchange. Both of the elder men stood silent upon the sidelines as they peered over their lenses with differing expressions of critical scrutiny.

Finally, Dumbledore asked, "Well, what is it that you have decided, Minister?" His jovial voice broke through the thickening tension with no amount of tact whatsoever. "About the boy," he clarified at the young Minister's inquisitive brow.

"I think it is best to leave him here," he responded, "in the esteemed care of Hogwarts."

"Just like so?" exclaimed Dippet, outrage evident in his sudden outburst. "He could be a danger to the students, the staff, the _school_ itself. We haven't even discovered the slightest bit of pertinent information in regards to the boy, and you think it sensible to put him amongst us?"

"I don't believe Hadrian is a threat, Headmaster. He's merely a young boy that has been dragged into a horrible situation," Minister Diggory said, easily brushing Dippet off. "In fact, rather than some sort of criminal or perpetrator, I believe that he is more the victim than anyone else."

"_Victim_?" Dippet hissed. "That boy is a liar! A horrid liar who has forced entry into _my_ school and endangered us all!"

_Why, thank you for the kind words, sir,_ Harry thought sardonically, though he did not bother to speak up as Minister Diggory immediately jumped to his defence, visibly bristling.

"I'd like for you to take such words back, thank you. Hadrian is a perfectly respectable young man who has been through more than enough without such accusations."

"Excuse _me_?" the Headmaster hissed in disbelief.

"Now, now, Armando," Dumbledore smoothly cut in. "Let us _not_ argue—for the situation just might escalate into something that none of us are truly interested in dealing with."

Dippet glared at Dumbledore but reluctantly fell into a seething silence.

"Now, Eldritch, my boy," Dumbledore calmly addressed the young Minister, "I'm rather certain that we have quite a severe misunderstanding here."

Harry caught a barely susceptible eye-roll from the handsome Minister, making him stifle a soft giggle.

"Oh? How so, _Albus_?"

"I believe we're both working off different facts at the moment."

"I beg you not to be so vague. It is rather tiresome when one does so in such excess, _sir_."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek.

"Forgive me, Minister," Dumbledore remarked, rather flippant in tone. "That was not my intention at all. It is merely that both Armando and I were under the impression that this boy was named Harry, as it is how he had introduced himself."

"Please proceed to the point, Albus," the Minister instructed, a dreadful scowl working its way onto his smooth features. "I haven't all day, especially not for idle chit-chat."

Dumbledore wasn't fazed, blue eyes twinkling brighter than before.

"You believe that his name is Hadrian Peverell. However, from his rather bold exclamation upon hearing it used to address him, it seems that the name 'Hadrian Peverell' is as unfamiliar to his ears as it is to the rest of us."

Minister Diggory seemed to mull over the statement for a moment before speaking, "I still do not see the point of your train of thought."

"To be clearer, Eldritch, I am saying—"

"—I know what you're _trying_ to say, Professor," the Minister interrupted curtly. "You believe I've mistaken this boy for another based upon the mere fact that he had introduced himself to you as 'Harry' rather than Hadrian. Also, I'm aware that the fact that he didn't seem to recognize his own name is quite suspicious."

"Then I do not understand as to why—"

"—I am not doing anything about it?" he impatiently finished for the elder man.

"Well, yes."

"You are far too concerned, Albus. Rather, to put it plainly, I find you overly paranoid. Perhaps it is your righteous apprehension that clouds your superior reasoning, but I reckon that it is perfectly plausible for Hadrian Peverell to introduce himself as 'Harry'," he states matter-of-factly, condescension almost dripping from his words.

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to frown at the younger man's attitude. "I'm afraid I'm not following, my boy."

The Minister huffed in exasperation, explaining slowly like he was speaking to a child, "It is plausible that 'Harry' is merely a nickname for Hadrian Peverell's given name. And seeing as he was initially disoriented and addled when addressed, I'm not surprised he would introduce himself with a name that comes more easily."

"And the fact that he did not recognize his own name..." Dumbledore trailed off in question.

"Could also be chalked up as disorientation. After all, he did suffer a great injury from his fall," he said, shrugging. Dumbledore looked to speak up once more, but the Minister quickly cut him off with a tired sigh. "But, there is also one other reason as to his immediate protestation upon hearing the name."

"Yes?"

The Minister was solemn as he spoke, "It is also the reason as to why no one has ever heard of Hadrian Peverell, or rather why no one has heard of the sustained existence of the Peverell family within the twentieth century." He gave all the occupants of the infirmary a scrutinizing once-over, even quiet Miss Pomfrey who'd tucked herself into a corner. "While none but the Minister and those directly involved are privy to the exact information, I can tell you that Hadrian's immediate response to his full name is not as suspicious as you may think. He is only doing what he's been told and professing ignorance to having any connections with the Peverells is exactly what he should have done in his situation." He turned back towards Harry with a soothing smile. "It was my fault for addressing you by name," he sincerely apologized. "As soon as I saw you so hurt, I couldn't help but let my concern for you interfere with your family's safety and my duties as the Minister."

Wow, Harry thought, taking in how overly-concerned Minister Diggory was with him. _Mister Minister, while you sure have some brilliantly reasonable excuses, you also have an uncomfortably questionable interest in this Hadrian Peverell character..._

Harry awkwardly smiled back at the older man. "Uh, yeah. It's, um, all good, sir," he replied uncertainly before internally sighing at the helpless lack of confidence that had reemerged in his tone. Hoping to somehow validate himself, he explained himself to Dippet and Dumbledore with a mixture of assurance and apology tinging his tone, "I introduced myself as Harry instead of Hadrian 'cause my friends and family call me that far more than they do otherwise. I didn't want to break confidentiality or outright lie, so I gave you the closest thing to the truth." He gave them a sheepish grin. Although neither seemed to truly buy it but they didn't exactly voice their skepticism, so Harry took that as a temporary win.

_Now, let us only hope that said friends and family of 'Hadrian Peverell' do not turn up anytime soon_, he thought to himself. _I mean, in the future, all the Peverells had died off long before this century even started. I only hope that still remains true since, somehow, 'Hadrian Peverell' now exists. Actually..._

He addressed Minister Diggory with a much easier smile, "Minister Diggory, sir?" The man grinned back eagerly whilst nodding for him to continue. "May I ask where my family is? I'd really like to contact them, since they're probably quite worried about now."

The smile fell from the Minister face just as easily as it came.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, sharply glancing at Harry as they all observed the thunderous frown descending upon Minister Diggory's countenance.

"Your father, you mean?" he enquired tersely with a scowl.

_Oh crap_, Harry panicked, wondering what exactly he'd said wrong. _I should probably tread more carefully..._

He gives a stiff nod. "Yes, sir. Of course, I meant my father."

The Minister sneers, "The whereabouts of Janus Peverell is a question common between you and me both. The man only appears when it suits his liking, but never before then."

Harry observed the hostility, furrowing his brows at the Minister's sudden shift in attitude. Minister Diggory clearly disliked this 'Janus Peverell' character. _But he seems to like _me _well enough_, Harry noted with a frown. _And at least this sort of answers my question about any supposed family. But there's still the unknown friends to worry about..._

The Minister took one look at the frown upon Harry's face and seemed to interpret it as one of offence; he performed another sudden three-sixty in attitude. "_Not_ that I wouldn't be _completely_ willing to find out his location for you," he tried to appease with a pleading smile. "I'm _sure_ he must be worried about you—probably out searching frantically for you, even. _I _certainly would be."

Harry refrained from wrinkling his nose in disgust at the Minister's somewhat suggestive tone. _Whomever Hadrian Peverell is, he sure has the Minister wrapped tightly around his little finger, _he thought with a vague amount of distaste; it reminded him too much of Voldemort and his grovelling Death Eaters.

"Ah," Harry agreed noncommittally, nodding with feigned gratitude. He was growing tired of playing around and simulating false emotions. "Thanks a lot, sir." He tried to smile without grimacing—and probably failed miserably.

"In the mean time, you shall be allowed to stay at Hogwarts," Minister Diggory stated authoritatively. "That shall be the safest considering you've yet to remember what had happened to you, and thus we do not know the extent of whatever threat we are facing."

"Eldritch—" Dumbledore began in protestation.

"—_Minister Diggory,_" the man interrupted snappily. "It would be more amiable between us if you didn't constantly attempt upon undermining my authority through your patronizing remarks in regards to my youth," the Minister scolded harshly. He turned to Dippet. "Seeing as _you_ are the Headmaster of Hogwarts, I am informing you that Hadrian Peverell is to stay at Hogwarts for the unforeseeable future. Is that _clear_, sir?"

Dippet visibly scowled. "You can not be serious—"

"—Oh, I am _very_ serious. This is an official order from the Ministry of Magic spoken by the Minister himself. From now on, any matters concerning Hadrian Peverell will be considered that of national security. I am placing him under Hogwarts' protection until more information is gathered."

"We can not protect the boy, Minister Diggory," Dippet protested. "He is a suspicious character, and while you are too taken by him to care to ask the pertinent questions, _I_ shall protect the students of my school! As the Minister, you should evaluate your priorities and private inclinations as—"

"—As it would be _wise _of you, Headmaster, to cease your baseless ramblings and accusations. You forget that, while you may be Hogwarts' _current _Headmaster, _I _am the Minister of Magic. I believe Hogwarts, its education, and the Board of Governors are all overseen by _my _Ministry, no?" His thinly-veiled threat hung tensely in the air around them. "I beg of you to recall this the next time you attempt to follow your Deputy Headmaster's example of disrespect."

Dumbledore spoke up, confident despite the Minister's present ire, "If the boy is of national security, would it not be wiser to keep him within the Ministry, protect him with the most able witches and wizards there?"

The Minister glanced at Harry, who was sitting silently and internally processing the situation around him.

_Whether it be with the Ministry or under Dippet and Dumbledore's care, I'm pretty much screwed either way_, Harry realized. _Since this is a matter of dubious time travel, the question isn't whether or not I'll slip-up, but what to do when the unevitable happens._

Minister Diggory sighed, rubbing at his temples. "The Ministry is no longer safe. Both the worlds of politics and warfare are infested with enemies and spies—if not those of Grindelwald's, then those of other preying parties." His handsome face was dour as he faced Dumbledore and Dippet. "I am aware than I may seem negligent—whether it be for my age or my lenience—but I am neither daft nor deaf to what the whispers are saying." He glanced again at Harry before turning back to the two elder men. "Although I am not of the belief that Hadrian Peverell is a criminal or foreign operative, I am aware of the situation of which he had arrived. So, that being said, I can not very well deny that suspicious activity is at hand. However, I suspect Hadrian Peverell is more the victim of such activity than the perpetrator."

Dippet gave Harry a dubious stare while Dumbledore's eyes frowned once more.

The Minister continued, "He shall reside in the impregnable walls of Hogwarts not only for his own safety but that of the nation's as well." Dippet looked ready to protest, but Minister Diggory cut him off, "If the Ministry is aware of the peculiarity of Hadrian Peverell's situation, it is more than likely that Grindelwald and his allies are as well." He swept a darkened look across the apprehensive countenances of the two elder men. "We _all_ know of his interests towards all that is peculiar. He shall be especially interested in something that managed to breach Hogwarts' magical barrier."

"And, how is it that we are not certain that young Harry's arrival is not his work?" Dumbledore questioned reasonably.

Minister Diggory chuckled darkly, the sound flat of any real amusement. "If that were true, then Britain would have already fallen to his reign." He shook his head, curling his lip. "If he truly has such power as to tear through millennia-old wards, then we shall all fall soon enough." He sighed tiredly, suddenly looking twice the age that the smoothness of his flesh implied. "Keep Hadrian Peverell contained within Hogwarts at all times, and much sooner than we think, suspicions _will_ be confirmed. Whether they be mine or _yours_."

Though the Minister turned to give Harry a soft comforting smile—as if to say 'I believe in you'—but Harry only felt suffocated.

_They're talking about me as if I am nothing more than a piece on their boards while I'm sitting right in the room_. He wasn't surprised though, he was quite used to it. Used to accepting that whenever the subject of warfare is brought forth, he's usually featured as merely another piece on the board. _However, i__f I get to stay at Hogwarts and experience its magic and comfort, it might be worth being treated like the property of the Ministry_, he tried to tell himself.

"What of the safety of the other students?" Dippet persisted.

Minister Diggory laughed loudly, still dry of any true amusement.

He replied with a secret smile, "You would surprised how well the students here can take care of themselves. You'd be even more astonished by the efficiency some have in _taking care_ of others. I should know, Headmaster; not too long ago, I _was_ one of your students."

Harry's felt a curious suspicion bubble up within him.

"What of the _safety_ of the other students?" Dippet repeated sharply.

Instead of the Minister, it was Dumbledore who smartly replied this time, "If there is trouble, then our logic and good judgment will guide us." His blue eyes twinkled once more, turning on Harry with their sharpened gaze. He smiled.

Harry gulped lightly, hands sweating profusely as he avoided the gaze.

_Note to self: Don't cause trouble_, he silently warned himself. _Wait, let's revise that... Note to self: Actively _try_ not to cause trouble._

"Then it is settled?" the Minister appraised.

Dumbledore peered at the younger man over his half-moon glasses.

"Yes, _it is_, my boy," he agreed, almost darkly. It contrasted blindingly with his genial tone and merry appearance.

Minister Diggory furrowed his brow, lips down-turning as he gave the man an apprehensive stare.

Dumbledore laughed jovially in response, warm tones echoing with an odd foreboding along the walls of the infirmary.

Dippet muttered an echo of non-committal agreement, not bothering to acknowledge anyone as he swept angrily from the room.

Harry frowned at the familiar way the Headmaster's robes seemed to billow ominously after him.

_Like a bat..._

...

...

...

Harry doubted things were about to get easier.

—

* * *

_.to be continued._

* * *

—


	4. IV

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything I don't own. Simple as that. Simpler, even._

**Title:** Of What Once Was.

**Rating: **M.

**Pairings: **Slash. Tom Riddle Jr. / Harry Potter.

**Warnings**: This is a slash-fiction. Includes pre-slash. Relationships with minors. Time Travel. Swearing. Violence. Sexual Content. etc.

…

**Thanks for the follows, favourites, and reviews!**

**Warning: From this point on, all chapters and follies are mine.**

**Welp.**

_.commence thy reading._

* * *

**Of What Once Was**

—

**Chapter IV**

—

Tom Riddle wasn't one to show much emotion—ever, really—but, for once, he simply couldn't contain the curiosity bubbling up from within him.

The pleased tilt of his full lips spoke plainly.

His green eyes were bright with interest as he awaited the Headmaster's arrival.

This late after curfew, there could only be so many things that the Headmaster wished to speak to him of.

_And of those few things, it's rather easily deduced _which_ he'd like to speak about_, Tom thought, images of wild dark hair and fickle magic brushing themselves seductively against his mind.

However, Tom's enthusiasm would've been greater if he didn't have to wait patiently for the Headmaster to arrive. He'd been standing in the bland old office nearly half past the time scheduled for them to meet.

Frowning, he waved his pale wand in the air for a quick _Tempus _charm.

_Make that _exactly_ half past now_, he scoffed to himself irritably. _While Dippet is quite elderly, I never suspected that it'd take that long for him to make his way through the decrepit particulars of his mind and find the way back to his own office._

Then, as if on cue—a rather thoroughly delayed cue, that is—Armando Dippet stormed in with an immensely dire expression. Robes billowed freely and savagely with each incensed step.

"Sir," Tom greeted with a polite nod, face carefully impassive. Revealing his irritation would obviously do him no favours.

Dippet made a weak effort to compose himself as he turned towards the Slytherin. Tom observed the hardly concealed furrow of the man's thick brows and the unconscious downturn of thin lips.

"Mr Riddle," Dippet greeted with a forced tone of control. His lips pinched harshly as he continued, "I hope you are aware that the next words that pass between us will remain so. Between us, that is."

_Straight to business then_, Tom noted. _Works for me._

"As you say, sir," he dutifully agreed with a well-mannered nod.

"See it is so, Mr Riddle," Dippet snapped harshly, before adding, "Or see to the consequences of disobedience."

Tom nearly snorted in derision at the promise of punishment. Dippet's attempt to mask his blatant desperation beneath a layer of authority did nothing to fool Tom.

_But, _what_ is it that has the old man so desperate, I wonder_… he thought to himself. His mind immediately went to thoughts of the boy who had fallen from the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall, all dark hair and pure magic.

_All that __**power**_… Tom's thought trailed off as a mixture of longing, greed, and possessiveness scratched insistently at his consciousness.

"Mr Riddle?" Dippet's voice really grated on Tom's nerves. "Are you paying attention, Mr Riddle?"

Holding back an irritated sigh, Tom gave a feigned nod of respectful acquiescence. "Yes, of course, Headmaster." He smiled, eyes lowered just enough to display a false regard for Dippet's so-called authority. "I am much aware of the consequences, sir. I assure you that I hold your confidence with as much regard as I do your respect." The sardonic curl of his lips was barely perceptible under the dim lighting, slyly elongating beneath the cover of shadows. Tom holds respect for very few, and Dippet and his irritating redundancy does not happen to be included amongst the sparse.

Tom's slight went unnoticed; which, logically, should be a good thing, but Tom couldn't help feeling otherwise as he watched Dippet give him a condescending smile, clearly convinced by Tom's display false deference.

Dippet sighed tiredly before pulling out a silken handkerchief from the folds of his robes with a weak little flourish. He coughed into it hoarsely—the sound was terribly guttural and vaguely nauseous. If Tom wasn't known for his composure, he would have cringed in disgust.

"Mr Riddle," the Headmaster paused, seeming uncertain of how to continue. He sighed once more, following up with yet another cough, before venturing forth, "I am sure that you're aware of the _incident_ during the Start-of-Term Feast."

"Of course, sir," Tom replied smoothly. With a good-natured shrug, he remarked, "It was not the most subtle of affairs, after all."

Dippet, clearly unamused, feigned a tight chuckle nonetheless. "That may be so," he agreed. "However," he continued tersely, "the information that I will soon allow you to become privy to is to be regarded with the _utmost_ subtlety. Not only for _your_ safety but for that of the entire school."

"I understand, sir," Tom was quick to reply, as eager and dutiful as the shiny Head Boy badge upon his robes suggested. "This school is like a home to me, sir. Of course, I would never intentionally see harm to it!" he proclaimed with a tasteful amount of fervency. He shook his head, as if he was slightly appalled by the notion, and added, "Not when I can prevent it with something as simple as holding my tongue."

Dippet narrowed his eyes with shrewd skepticism, but the edges of his lips slightly curled, betraying his satisfaction with Tom's performance. "This shall be the only warning I give, for the topic of which I am about to breach is not to leave these walls unless further discussion states otherwise."

"Yes, sir."

"I can not express the utter importance of maintaining secrecy and handling this affair with as much subtlety as possible, Mr Riddle." Dippet gave a tense grimace of an attempt at a smile. "I have the utmost faith in you, but I am responsible for notifying you of the consequences nonetheless."

Tom nodded solemnly, though internally seethed with impatience.

_I hate people who blather on and on around topics_. His eyes narrowed at Dippet's poorly concealed paranoia. _Dippet is often one who does such; however, not usually to such an irritable extent._

"Please, sir," Tom cajoled before Dippet could recant another useless warning to him. With a weak smile, he asked with feigned dejection, "Can you not trust that I will retain whatever knowledge you give with as much secrecy need be?" Tom's lips pursed into a saddened frown when Dippet remained silent. "Whatever have I done to discourage you from my confidence, sir? I must insist that I'm sincere in my previous words. If I have done this school—my only true home—any wrong, please allow me to make amends."

Dippet gave a shuddering sigh, sullenly shaking his head. "It is not you, Mr Riddle. You've always been an upstanding young wizard. One of the brighter ones of your generation, I believe. The brightest, even. I do not doubt your sincerity in the least. It is just…" he paused, giving another weathered sigh. Steeling himself, the old man stated, "We are at a time of war and information can no longer be given freely without consequences. The Ministry has become involved and as a result, its politics has entwined itself with the safety of this school."

"The Ministry and the safety of Hogwarts… Does it serve my assumption correct if I were to say both of these topics have something to do with the boy that dropped into the Great Hall on the first?" Tom enquired.

Dippet nodded solemnly. "Yes, and he is precisely what I wish to speak to you about."

Tom tilted his head with genuine interest, pleased that the conversation was actually venturing away from hopelessly pointless to becoming somewhat interesting.

The Headmaster continued with a thunderous frown, "He breached Hogwarts' wards and is currently suspected of active involvement with Grindelwald."

"Thus, the Ministry involvement," Tom concluded. "Has he been taken in by the DMLE then, sir?"

"No," Dippet said with an angry shake of his head.

Tom contained his smile, oddly relieved by the single syllable of denial.

"And _that_ is what I do not understand," the Headmaster proclaimed furiously. "The _Minister_ himself got involved but the boy still, _somehow_, remains within our school. And he's currently being nursed and mended together in the infirmary like he is but some helpless victim!" He raised and dropped his hands with an exasperated huff, growing more incensed as he continued with little restraint, "The boy was even pardoned of all suspected crimes by the blasted Minister, _personally_, at that—though I suspect the favouritism was due to the Minister's rather… _profligate_ interest in the child." He sneered with disgust at his own words. "Then, as if that weren't enough, he had the gall to _insist_ the boy stay at Hogwarts, for his own _protection_. I refused, of course, but the man had cared for nothing but the boy and proceeded to threaten _me_ with his over glorified title. 'Minister of Magic,' he says. _Pah_!" he sneered. "To think I had once thought fit to choose him as a Head Boy of Hogwarts. It has become abundantly clear that Diggory clearly has little regard for the safety of our current students, being so quick to demand we protect a suspected _terrorist_. The sheer amount of disrespect is absolutely astounding…" He shook his head in disbelief, rubbing furiously at his temples as he paced about the room.

Tom raised a brow at the Headmaster's evident ire towards Eldritch Diggory, the current Minister of Magic, the youngest of this century.

_Diggory had been six years ahead of me_, Tom recalled. _A Ravenclaw, I believe._

Being that they were in neither the same year nor house, Tom did not personally know the man. However, Diggory had held somewhat of a reputation within the rumours that plagued Hogwarts during Tom's first year.

_Diggory was a man defined by endless praise. 'A handsome and charming ladies' man,' people often fancied as a description. _Tom scoffed to himself at the thought. _But despite his stellar reputation, there was still that one _incident_ with his younger brother that most plead ignorance to._

Eldritch Diggory's younger brother—a Hufflepuff whose name Tom never bothered to learn—was a fifth year when it happened. Tom wasn't interested in rumours about Hufflepuffs being found in broom closets with three younger Gryffindor boys, but the aftermath of that discovery was violent enough to garner Tom's attention.

Homosexuality was not as prosecuted within the Wizarding world as it was amongst the Muggles but rather something of which you are aware of and maintain discretion about.

However, when the younger Diggory was outed for having 'relations' with three Gryffindors, it seemed no one could remain mum about anything.

Especially not Aidan McLaggen—whose own younger brother, Tiberius, was one of the three younger boys involved.

Being brash and shamelessly Gryffindor to the tee, McLaggen viciously jumped Diggory Jr. with a group of his seventh-year mates, brutally beating the Hufflepuff until the younger boy ended up with a ruptured spleen, several broken bones, and heavily bruised spinal cord.

Tom had found it all rather barbaric—seeing as McLaggen and his lackeys had all seemed to forgo the fact they were wizards and proceeded to exact revenge through base physical violence—but the primitivity must have been the catalyst of Eldritch Diggory's, much more impressive, retaliation.

The Ravenclaw Head Boy had cursed McLaggen and his group of offending Gryffindors with some rather vicious, underhanded hexes. It was all quite impressive, considering the do-gooder façade Diggory often employed. McLaggen and his crew ended up with an extended stay at St Mungo's, displaying a set of injuries that appeared identical to Diggory Jr's on the surface, but since they were magically inflicted, they were much longer-lasting and infinitely more vicious. Tom had been briefly amused by the irony.

However, Diggory's actions didn't stop there.

Similar to how a volcano can rarely cease mid-eruption, the Ravenclaw could not leave the situation well alone even after he had successfully landed McLaggen et al in the hospital.

Rumours upon rumours had piled up about Eldritch Diggory and his poof of a younger brother, effectively tarnishing both their reputations. That bothered the Ravenclaw's 'delicate sensibilities', Tom assumed.

After dealing with the Gryffindors, the elder Diggory had then turned his wand upon his younger brother. He declared the boy unfit to hold the family name due to his indiscretions and brutally hexed him in his hospital bed.

Of course, Diggory hadn't wanted to take the blame for his actions, so he had washed his hands of it by pinning his brother's injuries on McLaggen's crew while, in turn, pinning McLaggen's injuries on his younger brother's visibly irate friends. And before anyone could bother to protest, Eldritch Diggory had somehow managed to convince his parents to take his brother out of school. Then, the Ravenclaw tidied up his mess by blackmailing McLaggen with threats against the Gryffindor's own homosexual younger sibling.

All in all, Tom had thought Diggory's work was rather mediocre in terms of settling affairs—too many witnesses and too many loose ends. _No one_ should ever be able to recount your revenge with a play-by-play. However, Tom would acknowledge that the older Ravenclaw's discretion was still rather commendable for an amateur; Tom himself was of the few who truly knew what happened beneath all the rumours and hearsays—and that was only because his network of information had branched further than one would assume for a 'mudblood' Slytherin first year.

Hearing of Eldritch Diggory's 'profligate interests' in the boy who fell into the Great Hall struck something odd within him, suspicions rising as he was quick to remember Diggory inflicting a far more vicious attack upon his homosexual little brother then upon the Gryffindor attackers of said little brother.

_Eldritch Diggory was _much_ too eager to hurt his brother_, Tom recalled. _He was too willing and merciless to have harboured anything but hatred for his brother's interests. And he behaved much too apathetically to have been one who held similar ones. _He pursed his lips in contemplation. _Which brings us to the question of _why_ is the Minister so interested in the boy who fell?_

Tom voiced his as much out loud, interrupting Dippet's frantic pacing.

Posturing tensing infinitely as he stilled, Dippet answered stiffly, "The boy's name is Hadrian Peverell."

_Peverell? _Tom narrowed his eyes, considering the significance of the name._ What a curious, curious name. Quite old, I believe_, he mused._ Old enough for many to believe them to be a mere myth. And more specifically, old enough to be considered long since _dead_… How interesting, indeed._

"Hadrian Peverell?" he feigned ignorance. "Do you mean Peverell, as in the characters within Beedle the Bard's _A Tale of The Three Brothers_?"

"The last I'd heard of the Peverells was in that childish fairy-tale as well. To think the young Minister was so easily fooled by a mere child, especially one with quite an obvious taste for fictional names, at that," Dippet scoffed in distaste. "All inquiries I attempted to put forth were swiftly brushed under the rug by the Minister's sudden imposition of authority." He scowled sourly, hissing angrily, "'Confidential,' they insisted—both he and that wretched boy."

Tom hummed thoughtfully, more intrigued than he let on. "And Professor Dumbledore, sir? What did he say?" he prompted, hoping to incite the Headmaster further; Dumbledore and Dippet always disagreed whenever it came to the subject of authority and who should wield more.

"Little of anything useful," Dippet huffed. "Albus was too easily swayed by Diggory's influence and the teary eyes of an adolescent charlatan; he quickly folded beneath the pressure. Not only that, he didn't let me get a word in edgewise before tactlessly agreeing to the Minister's unreasonable demands," he seethed. "I often doubt Albus' ability to consider the consequences of his actions, seeing as he constantly behaves on mindless impulse without any sort of further discussion."

_That sounds just like Dumbledore; always ready to manipulate the power into his hands without a single care as he steps on Dippet's toes in the process of gaining the higher ground_, Tom thought wryly. _However, I thoroughly doubt he truly folded beneath the pressure of Diggory's posturing. Nor that he acted on 'mindless impulse'._

"And, what are the Minister's demands if I may ask, sir?" Tom asked, opting to direct Dippet's attentions to another topic before an impassioned rant about Dumbledore could begin.

Dippet remained silent for a moment, lips turning down harshly. "The Minister _commanded_—the absolute gall of that shameless _boy_," he muttered spitefully under his breath, before speaking up once more, "He dared to _command_ us into keeping Hadrian Peverell—if that's even the child's name—under Hogwarts' supervision and protection until further notice."

Tom could feel the anticipation run its eager claws down his conscience. Despite what the teachers seemed to think, it was Tom who commanded the most authority within the school's community. Having the boy placed as a ward under Hogwarts' influence practically affirmed that the dark-haired boy would soon be another one of Tom's.

"Then, sir, I assume the reason you called me in here is to inform me of the said task of supervision," he stated, lips tightening to suppress a smirk.

Dippet nodded. "Yes, seeing as you are the most logical choice, being Head Boy and all," he sniffed. "While this in no task for a mere student, the staff have more dire worries and far less time to deal with a potential fugitive when Grindelwald is practically circling in upon us from the outside. I believe you can handle this task, yes?"

'_A mere student', you say_, Tom wished to scoff, eyes slightly narrowing at the unintentional slight.

Nonetheless, Tom nodded dutifully. "Of course, sir. I also expect you wish for reports upon the boy's actions and intentions, as well?" he queried politely.

Dippet ascertained his agreement with a brusque nod. "Yes, yes." He gave a dismissive wave as he collapsed into the seat behind his desk. "Go to the infirmary; you will find your temporary charge there and I expect you to deal with him responsibly. Hopefully, your involvement will help prevent any further breaches in our security," he said with a terrible scowl. He narrowed his eyes in Tom's direction; eyes squinting unattractively. "After all, Mr Riddle, you are currently one of our best and brightest; we would _not_ want any incidents to affect the outcome of our future, would we?"

The underlying threat did not go unheard. Tom would have laughed if it wouldn't have made him seem disrespectful.

"No, we wouldn't." he agreed with polite poise, tactfully brushing off the Headmaster's threatening remark. "I shall observe the boy as you suggested, sir."

_Of course, what I report may differ from what I observe_, he thought smugly to himself.

Dippet nodded. "Good." He flicked his hand towards the door. "You're dismissed."

Tom pivoted on his heel, striding out of the office with an easy grace and the urge to roll his eyes.

…

…

…

The croaking hacks of a tired old man echoed forebodingly along the castle's hallowed walls.

* * *

Harry sat nervously on the infirmary bed, pale hands clenching and unclenching against sheets. His cold sweat lightly dampened the starched cotton blend, allowing the white linen to adopt a translucent quality that traced the vague shape of a handprint. He grimaced in disgust at the evidence of the profuse amount he seemed to be sweating.

Professor Dumbledore, who happened to be perched casually on a stool by his bedside, stared at him with something akin to curiosity. Though Harry chanced a glance at the long auburn scruff lining Dumbledore's jaw, and up the crooked nose to just under familiar half-moon glasses, he didn't dare to meet the twinkling blue eyes.

_All these years and I'm still absolute balls at Occlumency_. _That, and lying. And dealing with Dumbledore… _

Harry's gaze quickly shifted away before he was caught staring, flittering about the room anxiously as he awaited the blasted nurse's return. The atmosphere was getting awkwardly charged with tension because he was pretty sure Dumbledore thinks he's a dreadful liar who is in over his head and Harry himself had mixed emotions over what he thinks of Dumbledore.

Harry just couldn't believe that Dumbledore was sitting at his bedside, alive and looking far younger than he had any right to. Old feelings of lovehateangerdespairhate_hate_**hate **welled up within him far easier than Harry anticipated.

Minister Diggory and his Aurors had left him in the care of Hogwarts and within its impregnable walls. Once, Harry would have been more than glad to spend his time in the only place he's ever truly considered home (despite the multiple attempts on his life that had happened within it), but at the moment, he could only feel a vague sense of dread as he was constantly being reminded that he wasn't in Kansas anymore, per se.

Harry felt the burn of bile threatening to rise up his esophagus. Clapping a dampened palm across his mouth, he quickly stuttered, "I'm s'rry, uh, sir, Professor Dumbledore. Um, w-where's the, uh, loo in here?"

Twinkling blue eyes pinned him with a look of concern. "Just by Miss Pomfrey's desk, right behind—"

Harry didn't bother to let the man finish as he scrambled off the bed, tripping over himself as he dashed to the aforementioned loo, slamming the door shut behind him. The layout of the infirmary hasn't changed much from what he remembered, and Harry had stayed there more than enough times to know the location of the toilet like the back of his hand.

_It's practically a home away from home_, he thought sardonically. _The year-end retreat after Voldemort tries to off me via a megalomaniac plan of certain doom that's generally avoidable through dumb luck and convenient timing._

In the back of his mind, Harry was aware that he was probably encouraging Dumbledore's suspicions about him, but the threat of projectile vomiting into the man's face and appallingly ginger beard definitely overrode his logic and capacity for well thought out actions.

As he curled himself over the porcelain bowl and heaved into it, finding little relief as the thoughtlessness of his actions caught up to him. He heaved once more. Then again. And again. And _again_.

It took about ten more excruciatingly long minutes before his stomach settled and the dry retches into the toilet ceased. Sighing tiredly, Harry quickly flushed before using the sink to crawl back onto his feet.

Using the back of one hand, he wiped away at a thin trail of vomit while the other fumbled shakily with the tap handle. As it finally turned under the push of his spastic fingers, cold water splattered loudly into the smooth bowl of the sink, the jets of water coming out at the highest pressure and wetting the paper-thin gown he'd been forced into.

Harry yelped in surprise, hands fluttering in a panic to turn down the water. After almost a full minute of helpless flailing, he heard a knock on the door to the loo.

"Mr Peverell? Are you alright in there, m'boy?"

Dumbledore.

_Shit!_

"Y-yeah," Harry attempted to sound firm as he called out over the splashing of water. A hand finally managed to stop spazzing out just enough to grip desperately onto the tap handle; Harry quickly turned it off. "Yeah, I'm alright! I'm all good! Just, just give me a sec, yeah?"

The was a pause, before, "Alright, m'boy. I'll trust you on that."

Harry actually cringed. He hated when Dumbledore said stuff like that. Stuff designed to make you feel guilty one way or another.

He shook his head with a sigh.

Making sure to take better care this time, Harry slowly turned on the tap, letting the cool water trickle into the cusp of his palms. He splashed his face with it in order to freshen up.

From what he caught in the mirror, the water wasn't doing much for the dark smudges beneath his eyes and his pallid complexion.

_W-wait…_ Harry thought, jolting up as if electrocuted. He leant forward, nose almost pressed up against the glass of the mirror. _What. The. Actual. Fuck?_

His reflection stared back at him with equal bewilderment, mouth hanging agape.

Harry couldn't believe what he was seeing and didn't know how exactly he felt about it.

For one, he felt infinitely daft for not realizing it all sooner.

The clarity of everything. The weakness of his muscles. The way he tripped over himself.

_Bloody hell_, he cursed silently as his pale, trembling fingers dragged across the baby-smooth skin of his cheeks.

Not only had Harry somehow been shrunk back into the size of a poorly-fed seventeen-year-old who's been on the run for the better part of a year, but he also had an absurdly clear ability to see despite the lack of glasses perched customarily onto the bridge of his nose. Meaning, he had the ability to see the detailed state of his face.

Harry noted that although the apparent differences in his facial features were no more changes than they were a revelation of what had always been there, the damage done was much more horrific than that which affected his height, build, and eyesight. The bare display of his countenance was remarkably intrusive in its effortlessly natural presentation, rendering itself both tactful and tactless at the same time.

It made Harry feel immensely uncomfortable in his own skin as he stared at the unwanted transformations to his being, none too subtly reminded him of times better forgotten and memories that never were.

Without his glasses, Harry looked far more like his parents than he ever wished. Gone was the generically attractive, average-looking man whose only remarkable features were his eyes and distinctively-shaped scar. In his place was a familiar stranger that he did not want to accept.

Green eyes—bright and luminous—were highlighted by dark bruises along the delicate skin beneath them. His facial structure was always compared to his father's but without his round wire-lenses obscuring a section of his face, the thin aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and narrow jawline were blatantly displayed in a perfect blend of both Lily Evans and James Potter.

_Well, a highly unhealthy and underfed version of them, anyway_, Harry noted with a grimace as he took notice of the depressing way his infirmary gown draped formlessly against the severe angles of his shoulders.

The familiar, thin-but-not-quite-yet-emancipated quality of his body reminded him of those hollow-boned birds that Hermione was so fond of—fragile and feeble with sharp beaks and keen eyes. And the way his waxen flesh pulled across jutting cheekbones and an unhealthily sharp jawline were not unlike that of those tiny pixie-creatures Lockhart had once let run rampant in their class; his skin even had a similar abnormal smoothness to it, making him seem frighteningly of the Otherworld.

Harry hadn't looked so utterly depressing since back when he'd been forced to spend his summers with the Dursleys. The recollection made a foul churn of sickness twist at his insides.

Also, judging by the way he'd displayed subpar basic motor skills, Harry assumed that he was not only thinner but also shorter; his limbs unfamiliar and slow to respond.

Harry couldn't tell the explicit difference in the mirror, but knew he had to begrudgingly confront the fact that his well-earned height of _just about _six-feet was no longer a thing of reality.

_And all that effort completely wasted_, he thought spitefully. _That ruthless training regiment. That unforgivingly strict diet. That cruel period of time where not a single treacle tart could be consumed. _He couldn't help the slight shudder at the memories. _All that bloody effort to undo years of neglect and _of course_ I still get shoved straight back into this long-forgotten body—a second-rate husk of humanity, rife with memories of abuse and unfamiliarity. _

This made him feel more angry than sick, but the uncomfortable tightening in his gut persisted nonetheless.

Suddenly, a violent sting of pain bloomed from his forehead, forcing him to crunch forward in agony. As he gripped the edges of the sink for support, the unexpected ache of his ribs had him careening forward into the mirror.

Harry stifled a yelp of pain with a press of teeth against the back of his hand; the muffled sound hissed out in a string of irate profanities. He pressed back unruly bangs with his other hand, examining the damage.

Beneath the redness of a growing bruise, Harry's signature scar was no longer a pale imprint faded into porcelain flesh; it was angry and inflamed, edged by scarlet hues and the threat of gore. It looked and felt as if someone had taken a knife and reopened the cursed wound with a slow meticulous hand.

Horror-stricken green eyes were shuttered with a mix of rage and pain, glaring back at him from the tired contours of his face—stark in its shock.

"Mr Peverell?"

Harry's neck snapped towards the door at the sound of Dumbledore's voice calling through the door again.

Clearing his throat, he replied shakily, "I'll, uh, be right out!"

"There's a visitor here to see you," Dumbledore told him, tone oddly tight.

_A visitor?_ he wondered silently, furrowing his brow. _Another Ministry member, maybe?_

With the back of his hand, he wiped away the blood blooming from his scar before combing his messy hair over it in an effort to conceal its existence.

He was suspicious enough without the bloody curse mark.

"Mr Peverell?" Dumbledore called once more.

"I'm fine, sir. Coming right out!" Trepidation fell heavily upon Harry as he grasped the doorknob and twisted it open.

It would have been rather apropos if dramatic music had queued along with the slow creak of the door swinging open.

Green eyes widened infinitely.

Harry had only been as horrified as he was now only a handful of times in his life.

It approached him—limbs long, pale and elegant; a figure painted with the stale air of confidence.

Harry tried to stop himself but he was but another subject governed by Murphy's Law and the cold, cruel mistress that wrote it—utterly helpless to the inevitability of his fate.

And what a horrid bitch, Fate could be.

…

…

…

Harry released what was left of his stomach's meagre contents into the face of his horrors—quite literally.

—

* * *

_.to be continued._

* * *

—


End file.
